THE ANTIQUARY
Washington Irving's story of a week spent with Scott at Abbotsford
always leaves in my mind an indescribable thrill of pleasure. Partly
because Irving really did have a delightful experience such as falls to
the lot of few men and partly because he knew, better than others, how
to transfer his own pleasurable emotions to the minds of other people,
it is certain that, to my mind at least, there is no single sketch in
all the Scott literature, not even in Lockhart's brilliant work, that
throws a stronger light upon the Great Wizard's character or
illuminates a more attractive picture.
It was a happy week for the American visitor, and I imagine it
contained no happier moment than when the younger author nestled by the
side of his warm-hearted friend, under the lee of a sheltering bank
during a shower, the plaid of the Scotchman closely wrapped around them
both, while the enchanting flow of anecdote, reminiscence, and
whimsical suggestion went merrily on in spite of the Scottish mist. It
was in the course of their walk on this particular morning that Scott
stopped at the cottage of a labourer on his estate to examine some
tongs that had been dug up in the Roman camp near by. 'As he stood
regarding the relic,' says Irving, 'turning it round and round, and
making comments on it, half grave, half comic, with the cottage group
around him, all joining occasionally in the {146} colloquy, the
inimitable character of Monkbarns was again brought to mind and I
seemed to see before me that prince of antiquarians and humourists,
holding forth to his unlearned and unbelieving neighbours.' There was
something peculiarly delightful about Scott's antiquarianism. He
seemed to feel that those who were without his own knowledge of values
were inclined to smile at his enthusiasm, and whenever he talked on his
favourite subject there was an undercurrent of sly humour which gave an
exquisite flavour to his conversation. The discovery of anything
ancient, whether a ruined castle, a broadsword or sporran from the
Highlands, or a scrap of some old ballad, gave him the greatest
pleasure, and nothing afforded his friends more enjoyment than to be
able to present him with such relics and curiosities as they knew he
would appreciate. A casual walk through the Entrance Hall and Armory
of Abbotsford, where hundreds of helmets, suits of armour, swords,
guns, pistols, and curiosities of infinite variety are displayed, is
enough to suggest to any one that Sir Walter himself was the real
Jonathan Oldbuck of 'The Antiquary.' A glance at the Library, with its
collection of twenty thousand rare old volumes, is enough to prove that
Scott, like Monkbarns, was not only an antiquary but a bibliophile as
well. Who but a genuine enthusiast could have written that chapter in
which the worthy Mr. Oldbuck exhibits the treasures of his sanctum
sanctorum to Mr. Lovel? 'These little Elzevirs are the memoranda and
trophies of many a walk by night and morning through the Cowgate, the
Canongate, the Bow, St. Mary's Wynd,--wherever, in fine, there were to
be found brokers and trokers, those miscellaneous dealers in things
{147} rare and curious. How often have I stood haggling on a half
penny, lest, by a too ready acquiescence in the dealer's first price,
he should be led to suspect the value I set upon the article!--how have
I trembled, lest some passing stranger should chop in between me and
the prize, and regarded each poor student of divinity that stopped to
turn over the books at the stall as a rival amateur, or prowling
bookseller in disguise!--And, then, Mr. Lovel, the sly satisfaction
with which one pays the consideration, and pockets the article,
affecting a cold indifference, while the hand is trembling with
pleasure!'
It was during the visit to Prestonpans, previously mentioned, that
Scott, a child of six, first made the acquaintance of George Constable,
an old friend of his father's, who resided near Dundee. He must have
learned from this gentleman something which started in him the
antiquarian instincts, for, as he himself has remarked, 'children
derive impulses of a powerful and important kind in hearing things
which they cannot entirely comprehend.' Certainly he put enough of Mr.
Constable into the description of Jonathan Oldbuck to cause various
friends to recognize him; and as Constable's intimacy with Scott's
father was well known, this gave colour to the suspicion that Scott
himself was the unknown author of 'The Antiquary.' But even a more
faithful delineation of George Constable than the book contains would
have failed to bring out the real charm of the delightful Oldbuck. It
is the Scott part of his nature that we really enjoy.
Next to the Antiquary himself, old Edie Ochiltree is the character who
is chiefly responsible for the pleasant {148} flavour of this book. He
is a mendicant whom it is a real pleasure to meet. His amiable nature,
his sly good humour, and his genuine friendliness win your affection in
the beginning and hold it to the very end. He is a picture drawn from
real life, though it is probable that old Andrew Gemmels, his
prototype, did not possess the many endearing qualities with which the
novelist invested Edie.
The 'blue gowns' of the south of Scotland were a class of licensed
beggars, known as the 'King's Bedesmen.' The number of them was
supposed to be the same as the years of the King's life, so it was
necessary to initiate a new member of the aristocracy of paupers every
year. At every royal birthday each bedesman received a new light-blue
cloak or gown and a pewter badge, together with a purse containing as
many pennies as the years of the King's life. Their sole duty was to
pray for long life for the King, which, considering that the older the
sovereign the larger the purse, they might very cheerfully do. In
return, all laws against beggars were suspended in their favour, and
the 'blue gowns' went about from house to house, fairly assured of food
and lodging and seemingly free from care.
The service of the 'blue gown' to the community is best set forth in
the words of Edie Ochiltree, who apparently considered himself a public
benefactor:--
And then what wad a' the country about do for want o' auld Edie
Ochiltree, that brings news and country cracks frae ae farm-steading to
anither and gingerbread to the lasses, and helps the lads to mend their
fiddles and the gudewives to clout their pans, and plaits rush-swords
and grenadier caps for the weans and busks the lairds' flees, and has
skill o' {149} cow-ills and horse-ills, and kens mair auld sangs and
tales than a' the barony besides, and gars ilka body laugh whereever he
comes? Troth, my leddy, I canna lay down my vocation; it would be a
public loss.
Andrew Gemmels was well known throughout the Border country of Scotland
for more than half a century as a professional beggar or 'gaberlunzie.'
He had been a soldier in his youth and maintained his erect military
carriage even in old age. He was very tall and carried a walking-stick
almost as high as himself. His features were strongly intellectual,
but marked by a certain fierceness and austerity of expression, the
result of his long and peculiar contact with all sorts of hard
experiences. Scott, who had often met him, comments upon his
remarkable gracefulness. With his striking attitudes he would have
made a fine model for an artist. One of his chief assets was an
unusual power of sarcasm, coupled with a keen wit, the fear of which
often gained for him favours which might otherwise have been denied.
He was full of reminiscences of the wars and of adventures in foreign
lands, which he told in a droll fashion, coupled with a shrewd wit,
that always made him an entertaining visitor. He wandered about the
country at pleasure, demanding entertainment as a right, which was
accorded usually without question. His preference as to sleeping
quarters was the stable or some outbuilding where cattle were kept. He
never burdened anybody, usually appearing at the same place only once
or twice a year. He always had money--frequently more than those of
whom he begged. When a certain parsimonious gentleman expressed regret
that he had no silver in his pocket or he would have given him
sixpence, Andrew promptly {150} replied, 'I can give you change for a
note, laird.' In later years he travelled about on his own horse, a
very good one, and carried a gold watch. He died at the age of a
hundred and six years, leaving enough wealth to enrich a nephew, who
became a considerable landholder. His tombstone in Roxburgh
Churchyard, near Kelso, contains a quaint carved figure of the
mendicant, above which are the words, 'Behold the end o' it.' This
refers to an incident related by a writer in the 'Edinburgh Magazine'
in 1817, the year after the publication of the novel:--
Many curious anecdotes of Andrew's sarcastic wit and eccentric manners
are current in the Borders. I shall for the present content myself
with one specimen, illustrative of Andrew's resemblance to his
celebrated representative. The following is given as commonly related
with much good humour by the late Mr. Dodds, of the War-Office, the
person to whom it chiefly refers: Andrew happened to be present at a
fair or market somewhere in Teviotdale (St. Boswell's if I mistake not)
where Dodds, at that time a non-commissioned officer in His Majesty's
service, happened also to be with a military party recruiting. It was
some time during the American War, when they were eagerly beating up
for fresh men--to teach passive obedience to the obdurate and
ill-mannered Columbians; and it was then the practice for recruiting
sergeants, after parading for a due space with all the warlike
pageantry of drums, trumpets, 'glancing blades, and gay cockades,' to
declaim in heroic strains the delights of the soldier's life, of glory,
patriotism, plunder, the prospect of promotion for the bold and the
young, and His Majesty's munificent pension for the old and the
wounded, etc., etc. Dodds, who was a man of much natural talent, and
whose abilities afterwards raised him to an honourable rank and
independent fortune, had made one of his most brilliant speeches on
this occasion. A crowd of ardent and anxious {151} rustics were
standing round, gaping with admiration at the imposing mien, and
kindling at the heroic eloquence, of the manly soldier, whom many of
them had known a few years before as a rude tailor boy; and the
sergeant himself, already leading in idea a score of new recruits, had
just concluded, in a strain of more than usual elevation, his oration
in praise of the military profession, when Gemmels, who, in tattered
guise, was standing close behind him, reared aloft his _meal-pocks_ on
the end of his kent or pike-staff, and exclaimed, with a tone and
aspect of the most profound derision, 'Behold the end o' it!' The
contrast was irresistible--the beau-ideal of Sergeant Dodds, and the
ragged reality of Andrew Gemmels, were sufficiently striking; and the
former, with his red-coat followers, beat a retreat in some confusion,
amidst the loud and universal laughter of the surrounding multitude.
The character of the old 'gaberlunzie,' as revealed in this anecdote,
was so faithfully transferred by the novelist to Edie Ochiltree, that
in spite of some embellishments he was immediately recognized.
To study the scenery of 'The Antiquary,' we went to Arbroath, a town on
the east coast of Scotland, which traces its beginnings back to the
twelfth century. This is the original of Fairport, and we found all of
the scenery of the novel in the immediate neighbourhood. In the midst
of a shower which threatened destruction to all photographic attempts,
we made our first visit to the ruins of the Abbey of St. Thomas, the
original of St. Ruth's. It was a disappointment to find this ruin in
the heart of the city, instead of a 'wild, sequestered spot,' where a
'pure and profound lake' discharged itself into a 'huddling and
tumultuous brook.' But the Wizard always reserved the right to
transplant his ruined castles and abbeys to suit his taste, and he was
quite justified {152} in transferring St. Ruth's to more romantic
surroundings, particularly as there is a deep ravine known as Seaton
Den, on the coast north of Arbroath, which answers every requirement.
Thanks to the British Government, which took charge of the abbey in
1815, there is still left enough of the walls to make a picturesque
ruin of considerable extent. For two centuries previously the people
of the village freely used the stones for building purposes. It is
necessary to go back six centuries to find the church in its full
perfection, when it was one of the richest and most sumptuously
furnished establishments in Scotland. In the year 1320, a parliament
was held in the abbey by King Robert the Bruce, and a letter, regarded
as one of the most remarkable documents in early British history, was
sent to the Pope, appealing for a recognition of Scottish independence.
The original abbey was founded in the year 1178 by William the Lion, a
Scottish monarch whose name is associated with nearly all of the
principal buildings which form the scenes of 'The Antiquary.' It was
dedicated to St. Thomas of Canterbury, the famous Thomas à Becket, whom
William had met at the court of the English King, Henry II, when a
young man. From ancient documents it would seem that the monastery was
maintained in a state of great opulence and that it was open to all
comers, rich and poor alike.
The predominating feature of the ruin, as it stands to-day, is the
south wall, containing what the people of Arbroath call the 'Roond O,'
a window twelve feet in diameter, immediately over the altar of St.
Catharine. Beneath this opening is a gallery with seven arches of
{153} carved stone, suggesting the scene in 'The Antiquary' where the
impostor, Dousterswivel, and Sir Arthur Wardour are digging for
treasure in the ruins, while Lovel and Edie Ochiltree watch the
performance from just such a place of concealment. We could almost
smell the fumes of the 'suffumigation' and hear the violent sneezes of
old Edie and the terrified ejaculation of Dousterswivel, 'Alle guten
Geistern, loben den Herrn!'
Monkbarns, the home of Jonathan Oldbuck, is closely associated with the
history of the abbey. When the fame of that establishment had spread
throughout Scotland and England, there were many pilgrimages to the
shrine of St. Thomas à Becket. Many of these pilgrims arrived sick and
exhausted. To provide for them, a rude hospital was ordered built,
about two miles away from the abbey, on lands now occupied by a
handsome building known as Hospitalfield. In Scott's day this house
was very much less pretentious and might well have corresponded with
his description of an 'irregular and old-fashioned building, some part
of which had belonged to a grange, or solitary farmhouse, inhabited by
the bailiff, or steward of the monastery, when the place was in
possession of the monks. It was here that the community stored up the
grain which they received as ground-rent from their vassals; ... and
hence, as the present proprietor loved to tell, came the name of
Monkbarns.' Readers of 'The Antiquary' will remember the altercation
between Oldbuck and his sister when the latter was requested to make a
bed ready for Mr. Lovel. '"A bed? The Lord preserve us!" ejaculated
Grizel. "Why, what's the matter now? Are there not beds and rooms
enough in the house? Was it not an ancient _hospitium_ {154} in which,
I am warranted to say, beds were nightly made down for a score of
pilgrims?"'
The property has a beautiful situation and is otherwise so desirable
that it passed from the monks into private hands centuries ago. It
finally came into the possession of Patrick Allan-Fraser, who made such
extensive additions that whatever is left of the original building
owned by the monks is completely covered up. This public-spirited
gentleman, who died in 1890, left the estate in trust for the benefit
and encouragement of young men who desired to study painting,
sculpture, wood-carving, architecture, or engraving, and the house is
now occupied by teachers and students. It has an art gallery
containing some valuable paintings, sculptures, and wood-carvings, and
a library of old documents and rare folios that would delight the soul
of Jonathan Oldbuck himself.
It was the most natural thing in the world for us, after visiting
Monkbarns, to seek the residence of his Tory friend and fellow
antiquarian, Sir Arthur Wardour, although we did not find it within
easy walking distance as might have been inferred. Ethie Castle has
been generally fixed upon by local writers as the original of
Knockwinnock. The present building is one of the country-seats of the
Earl of Northesk. It is a red-stone structure of considerable
antiquity and irregular design, which nevertheless made a pleasing
picture when seen at a distance of several hundred yards from the
front. A tiny brook crossed by a wooden bridge and flanked by huge
rhododendrons in full bloom made a charming foreground. Beyond was a
sloping field of tall grass, which had been mown only enough to make a
broad path in {155} the midst of which were countless thousands of
dainty pink-and-white daisies. On either side were ample groves of
well-foliaged trees, making a vista in which the old red mansion
appeared to excellent advantage.
Ethie Castle was part of the endowment which William the Lion granted
to the Abbey of Aberbrothock. It therefore dates back to the year
1178. In the sixteenth century it was the residence of Cardinal
Beaton, who seems to have bequeathed to it the 'Cardinal's Chapel,' by
which name a room in the house is still known and 'the tramp of the
Cardinal's leg,' a weird, ghostly sound of footsteps on the old stone
stairs, with which the castle is haunted. After the death of the
Cardinal, a natural daughter laid claim to the estate. Thus, as with
Knockwinnock, the 'bar-sinister' appears on the escutcheon of the
family.
Directly east of Ethie Castle and not far distant are the cliffs of Red
Head. The coast for some miles north of Arbroath is a series of huge
cliffs, with many strange caverns and curious rock formations. Almost
any of them, but Red Head perhaps better than the others, would serve
as the scene of the thrilling incident in 'The Antiquary,' in which Sir
Arthur Wardour and his daughter are overtaken by the tide and rescued
with great difficulty by Saunders Mucklebackit, ably assisted by Lovel
and Edie Ochiltree. Two huge rocks rise almost perpendicularly from
the shore. It is easily conceivable that any attempt to walk around
them, in the face of a swiftly rising tide, would be fraught with
dangerous, if not fatal, consequences.
The village of Auchmithie, the home of the Mucklebackits, is situated
on one of the cliffs south of Red {156} Head. This is the most
realistic of all the scenes of 'The Antiquary.' The village, with the
exception of a new hotel, is practically as it was when Scott was a
visitor in 1814. There is but one street, and that has no name; but
the houses are numbered, city-fashion. The post-office address of an
inhabitant would, therefore, give the number of the house and the name
of the town, omitting any mention of a street; thus the old fisherman,
who posed for me and to whom I mailed a photograph, lives at Number 58,
Auchmithie, Scotland. This old fellow is a type of the neighbours of
Saunders Mucklebackit. The habits of life of the people, their dress,
their occupations, their houses, their furniture, even their names, are
the same as they were a hundred years ago. I asked the old man how old
his house was. He replied, 'Ou, I dinna ken hoo auld. I'se
seventy-two mysel' and I was born here and my grandfeyther, too.'
Several others of whom I asked the same question gave substantially the
same answer.
[Illustration: AUCHMITHIE]
The post-office was in one of these ancient cottages, with a new front,
but otherwise unchanged. Its occupant was quite communicative. He
said it was the original Cargill Cottage, and that George Cargill, who
occupied it a century ago, was the original Mucklebackit. 'When Walter
Scott came to Auchmithie,' said he, 'he came by boat. There was n't
any way to land except through the breakers and he could n't do that
without getting his feet wet. So Cargill had to carry him ashore on
his back. When he set him down on dry land, Scott clapped him on the
back and said, '"What a muckle backed fellow you are, Geordie, to be
sure!" Muckle, you see, sir, means "much" or "big," and George had a
{157} great big broad back, so that's how Walter Scott got the name,
Mucklebackit.' He let me take a photograph of the interior of the
cottage, where a single room served for bedroom, breakfast-room,
kitchen, and numerous other purposes. I suppose the cottage of
Saunders Mucklebackit must have presented much the same appearance to
Monkbarns when he walked in to attend the funeral of young Steenie
Mucklebackit and won the hearts of all by performing the office of
chief mourner, according the family the rare honour of having the laird
'carry the head of the deceased to the grave.'
I found a very pleasant family group in front of the next cottage, and
after a few moment's conversation asked permission to take their
picture. Not hearing a dissenting voice, I understood my request would
be granted and began to set up my camera in the street. Before I had
half made ready, the entire group had disappeared. The police
department of the town then marched up to me,--one man strong,--and for
a moment I felt afraid I had been violating some law. But he was only
curious, and told me that the people had a strange aversion to being
photographed. I left my camera all focused and ready in the street and
sauntered with the constable to the side of the road. In a few minutes
a picturesque old fishwife, carrying two large empty pails in each
hand, came out of her house, all unconscious of the awful presence of a
loaded camera and I quickly stepped out and pressed the bulb. 'That's
Coffee Betz you got then,' laughed the constable. 'She would n't let
you take her picture, but she's one of the Cargills.' In this way I
came as near as possible to getting a photograph of the original Luckie
Mucklebackit {158} with whom Monkbarns haggled over the price of a
bannock-fluke and a cock-padle. For the fishwives of to-day are the
same as those of a century ago,--'they keep the man, and keep the
house, and keep the siller, too.' The men consider their own work
ended when the boat is pulled up on the beach. It is the wife who must
market the fish, which she does by carrying them on her back to the
nearest town, where she must 'scauld and ban wi' ilka wife that will
scauld and ban wi' her' until the fish are sold. 'Them that sell the
goods guide the purse--them that guide the purse rule the house,' and
therefore by common consent in these communities, the wife is the head
of the family.
Back from Auchmithie is the mansion house of Kinblethmont, surrounded
by some fine old woods. It will be remembered that Edie Ochiltree was
passing this place on his return from the Earl of Glenallan's castle
when he was arrested on a charge of assaulting Dousterswivel. Colonel
Lindsay, of Kinblethmont, and the Laird of Hospitalfield were the
leaders who took the direction of affairs when a French privateer named
the 'Dreadnought' threatened the town of Arbroath in very much the same
way as Fairport was menaced in 'The Antiquary.' The same scenes of
excitement so vividly described in the novel were there enacted.
Scott, however, had passed through a similar experience himself, which
enabled him to write the dramatic event with greater ease. For several
years, in the early part of the nineteenth century, the people of
England and Scotland were kept in a state of nervous dread by the
expectation of an invasion by the French. Beacons were erected all
along the coast ready to give instant {159} alarm, and militia
organizations were everywhere kept in a state of readiness. A false
alarm on February 2, 1804, brought out the volunteers of Berwickshire,
Roxburghshire, and Selkirkshire with surprising rapidity. Scott had
gone with his wife for a visit to Gilsland, the scene of their
courtship. He was then a member of the Edinburgh Volunteers. When the
alarm came he promptly mounted his horse and rode with all speed to
Dalkeith, a distance of one hundred miles, within twenty-four hours.
The alarm had subsided when he reached his destination, and after a few
jolly evenings with his fellow volunteers he returned to the south. It
was on this hurried trip that he composed a poem, entitled, 'The Bard's
Incantation.'
'The Antiquary' thus closes as it began, with a leaf out of the
author's personal experience. I have no doubt that he heartily enjoyed
its composition. It must have been an exquisite pleasure to one so
appreciative of genuine humour to caricature his own antiquarian
foibles; to weave into the pages of romance the many tales he had heard
in his youth of a character so interesting as the old 'gaberlunzie';
and to make the people of his fancy walk the streets of the ancient
seaport town, visit the old abbey, saunter along the cliffs of the
seashore, or roam about over the adjacent country, where he had spent
many pleasant hours in the company of well-loved friends.
Although Scott's own opinion at first was that 'The Antiquary' lacked
the romance of 'Waverley' and the adventure of 'Guy Mannering,' yet in
subsequent years he came to regard it as his favourite among all the
Waverley Novels.
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